The concrete jungle sizzles in summer. Light twinkles off the glass condo windows through waves of heat. You get jostled by sweaty sidewalk-denizens. The city is too much. Too full, too busy, too— too much. It’s Saturday. Almost noon. Or maybe Sunday and already past two. You’re hungry. Need food. Brunch. Breakfast. But you don’t want French toast. Enough eggs Benedict. You laugh in the face of omelettes. You want something different, somewhere else. It’s time to flip this meal upside-down. You need to head to Brooklyn — to Roberta’s. You need pizza for brunch.